


Save me from myself

by behzaintfunny



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anxiety Attacks, Cock Worship, Croatia NT, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, World Cup, catharsis sex, set post world cup final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 22:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: In the corner of his eye, Dejan catches the stars illuminating the great firmament. He imagines he can see the same sparkles glistening in Šime's eyes.





	Save me from myself

Šime never imagined he would find himself one step away from reaching the top of the world. Not in his wildest fantasies, not in his most shameful dreams -- he had never come so close to everlasting glory. He imagined it to be sunshines and harmony; not the crashing strain on his heart that he _could have done more._

The sun doesn't shine anymore. The world is dark, most of the stars covered by a strong feeling of remembrance. None of the colors reflect the joy he had experienced alongside his friends mere moments ago before the depths of his hotel room decided to eat him alive. He seems to be experiencing a million different thoughts at once and it truly, genuinely starts to drive him insane.

When a newfound arousal arises in the pit of his groin, he feels impossibly detached from his body. He touches his arms, all the colors that are inked into his flesh, then the exhausted muscles of his thighs. They hardly feel his own anymore. A breeze that whistles through the faint blinds caresses his shins, making him remember they are still, indeed, part of his body. He moves a lazy hand up and down his shaft in slow, languid strokes as though of boredom.

The sound of the shower being turned on startles him, making him halt in his movements. The anxiety is short-lasting though, as he closes his eyes in attempt to reach some sort of release.

His fingers feel impossibly cold on his warm skin and it is not a welcome distraction. He forces himself to think of all the people he had made proud, not the ones that are laughing at him and his futile efforts to achieve the unreachable. He thinks of Dejan and of the wall that's seperating them. His eyes close when he spits on his fingers generously and presses into himself experimentally. He bites back on a gasp he had not expected and forces them further inside. Once he is comfortably filled with three fingers, he shifts his legs apart more than he already had and runs a hand up and down his shaft.

It is almost there, the blissful escape from mundane thoughts alongside the depressing ones, until a new anxiety washes over him. He stops in his movements immediately.

It is as though an incredibly tight circle, or a noose, had been forcefully pulled around his neck. His breathing halts. Unease flies through his veins, colder than ice, before he abruptly pries his fingers out of himself. He sits on the edge of the bed, panting, as though he had woken up from the most terrible nightmare.

He drops to his knees and finds his duffel bag under the bed, desperately searching for a far forgotten pack of cigarettes under layers of clothing and socks. When he finds it and with it, his lighter, he brings one to his lips with trembling fingers. He falls onto his back, empty and anxiety-ridden. The carpet leaves burns all over his back.

He watches the ceiling as though it holds the answers to every question in the universe, inhaling the heavy smoke as his mind focuses on the harsh tapping of water in the shower.

  
***

Dejan is tired of being overcome by loss. The time he felt victorious, he shall cherish forever. Now, on the contrary, it all feels too close to home. Try, try, surpass everyone's expectations, try some more, lose on _the last fucking hurdle._

He covers his face with his hands and groans. If the world really is some theater then he is done with playing the secondary role. The puppet in someone else's story filled with glory and champagne, forgotten within a matter of pages. Because who will remember one Croatian defender when it's not him lifting the cursed gold trophy? No wonder Dejan was never keen on tragedies.

The cold stream of water runs down his back, making him arch in response. No gratitude proved to be strong enough to release him from the neverending cycle he is so fond of -- try, fail, try again. The constant hammering of droplets of water on the hard floor is almost enough to lull his mind to sleep. He avoids having to notice the harsh edges of his hands when they rub down his body, the way his skin burns when he scratches forcefully to make it stop, _please, stop,_ nor how he had finished the entire supply of hotel shower gel and feels no less wrecked. He starts shivering, the freezing water all but forgotten.

A newfound anxiety arises inside his chest, stronger now than back on the pitch. Dejan looks up into the stream of water that keeps him sane and breathes. It causes his eyelids to twitch and his lips to feel frostbitten. His head collides against the wall when it all gets too much, like it always does, and he pretends that his cheeks don't burn with a much warmer wave of tears. His nails claw at the marble wall in a desperate attempt to stop feeling, _damn it_ , as he hears the bathroom door open. He freezes momentarily, the cold embrace of water on his body feeling somewhat comforting all of the sudden, until the door locks with a gentle noise. He allows himself one peek from underneath the forceful stream. A soft-looking towel has been placed on the edge of the sink, inviting. Dejan sighs before submerging under the cold water, one last time.

Warm waves of tears run down his face alongside much colder ones that make his veins freeze. His knees shake and threaten to collapse underneath him but he stays still with sheer willpower. He starts counting down to ten repeatedly, taking greedy breaths whilist continuously choking on water. His fists hit the wall again, though this time much weaker and seemingly broken.

He prays the cold water washes the scent of loss that his skin reeks of.

***

A different sort of frost overwhelms the bedroom. It's warm outside, almost unbearably so, but the lack of energy in the room makes it feel like Moscow during its most terrible winter.

There, on the bed far too large for both of them, lies the perfect picture of calmness. Šime watches as a faint streak of smoke flies to caress the ceiling before falling down onto his face. He is seemingly glued to the spot, the only consensual movement in his body being the shaking of his wrist when he drags on the cigarette. All the windows are pried open, allowing the hot breeze to welcome itself in the dark room in an oddly therapeutic way. He idly notices the shower had stopped after what seemed to be forever. He finishes his third cigarette once the door opens and through it walks the one man he would follow to hell and back, shivering, adorning a towel far too small for him.

Dejan fiddles with the cuticles of his fingernails before flicking the light switch on, "Thank you for the--"

The sentence is cut short abruptly, Dejan seemingly lost for words. Only then does he look at Šime properly, _his Šime,_ and, for a second, wishes he had a camera with him.

Šime is... a lot of things. Charming, hard-working, stubborn to the point of it being ridiculous. Incredulous and intelligent in his own way, with a tendency to make everyone within a five mile radius of him fall in love with him. He is the entirety of the Balkans embodied -- passionate, loving, home-like.

Though, at this very moment, he seems to be a god amongst men. Dejan halts in his movement immediately once his eyes travel from his face down his body. Šime is displayed carelessly alongside the entire bed, taking up as much space as humanly possible with his legs. His hair still adorns beads of sweat that never really left, pressed into the white sheets. He is beautifully naked like the finest Greek sculpture, sculpted to utmost perfection, save for the one sheer piece of material covering his hips.

 _"Dragi..."_ Dejan whines, low in the depths of his throat, before closing the distance between them. Šime beckons with his free hand for Dejan to come closer, _closer_ , until he is straddling his hips.

Šime puts out another cigarette before running his hands down Dejan's trembling thighs. Dejan lies down on the comfortably warm body underneath his own, settling in the space inbetween Šime's collarbone and jawline.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't."

The silence that reverberates through the room brings comfort to Dejan. He inhales Šime's musk as though it's his first and only chance, lovesick and desperate. A starlit sky shines somewhere above them, overcome with clouds that are already drained of rain. The world hardly exists around them -- all conversations ceasing to an abrupt end, celebrations far overtaken by an odd feeling of grief, Moscow quiet around them. Šime's slow heartbeat serving as the only music to his ears, accompanied by quiet tapping of rain on the window sill. Dejan wonders whether it symbolises the last tears people shall shed for them before eternal joy overcomes them all.

"I didn't call you hear to take my breath away." Šime mumbles against his hair, "Not like this, anyway."

Dejan smiles before scraping his teeth against Šime's collarbone. Teasing, playful, needing to prolong this to its utmost.

"Tell me what you want, then, baby."

Dejan paints a masterpiece on the canvas that is Šime's chest with his lips only. Feather light kisses travel down his ribcage, exploring, curious, earning a soft whine to escape Šime's mouth. Dejan basks in the view displayed before him, struggling to remember every curve in Šime's body as well as the opera of needy noises filling the room.

"I want-- Dejo, you, I want--" Šime stops as Dejan licks where the sheer material meets his lower abdomen, "I want you to make all of this worthwhile."

As Dejan's hands caress his lover's thighs, he is promptly devoid of words. He desperately needs to spill his heart out to Šime, the Croat god underneath him, but all air seems to have escaped his lungs the moment he properly gazed at the space he was touching.

Šime's cock, a sinner's most craved prize, slowly brought to full hardness, teasing from underneath the world's most important flag, the one that never painted the Russian sky. Dejan cannot refrain himself any further from rubbing the glistening head of Šime's cock, yearning for him to come apart underneath him. The Croatian flag is unsurprisignly soft against the tips of his fingers and his palm, adding a contrast to the refined edges of Šime's hips. Dejan truly believe he is pleasing a god, repaying his every debt with slow circling of his fingers, praying for redemption. If Šime truly is a deity of the highest sort, he would get down on his knees at an instant and pray, pray that Šime doesn't spill down his throat too soon and the wordless connection between them dies.

But Šime's not a deity. He is still unbearably, terrifically human.

The restrained moans escaping his body drop the godly façade down as Dejan finally reaches to capture Šime's lips in a long awaited kiss. It serves as a reward far greater than Šime's beautiful cock could ever be. Šime writhes underneath him, silently begging for the kiss to deepen. When Dejan obliges, Šime's hands reach the curve of his ass, freeing it from the last piece ensuring his dignity. _Dignity be damned,_ Dejan thinks. If the whole team entered the room there and then, he would probably invite them over for a night that shall not be easily forgotten.

_(He promptly ignores the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that this night could have turned out so differently._

_"You should come over, Dejo." Vedran told him, running inviting hands down his back, "All the guys will be there. It'll be easier to cope for all of us."_

_And, as always, when his heart tells him yes, he smiles apologetically before walking away. He pretends not to have noticed the way Ćarli's face fell slightly. Not like he'd ever admit it.)_

Dejan's fingers find way to Šime's long hair, pulling in a desperate attempt to make Šime feel the most of it. He pulls away, gazing at the swollen lips he doesn't ever wish to abandon, before resuming his position on Šime's hips.

"I want you to scream my name when I make you come." Dejan orders, voice faltering only the slightest, as he ruts down on Šime experimentally, "Don't hold back."

Šime nods confidently, the response forced back down his throat as Dejan rubs against him, head to head. His hands immediately make way to meet Dejan's body, craving to away the damned flag that's restraining him from Dejan.

Dejan takes both of Šime's wrists in a forceful grip, hard enough to bruise if he pleased so, before placing them atop Šime's head.

Dejan mutters, "Keep them there."

Šime grasps at the corners of the pillowcases in a futile attempt to reach enough friction. Dejan re-arranges the flag with the most gentle of touches, sacred for his motherland, until he is satisfied with his own masterpiece. It hugs Šime's hips, engulfing them in the most special embrace. It purposefully doesn't cover the head of his cock, where Dejan knows he is most sensitive. Dejan holds onto Šime's shoulders for leverage before rutting hard, pressing Šime's hips into the matress more and more with each thrust.

The prolonged moan that emerges from Šime's throat almost brings Dejan to the edge embarassingly quickly. The flag starts to chafe and burn against the back of his thighs the more he rubs himself against Šime. It is electrifying, truly, the way him and Šime feel so good together. They should have started doing this ages ago had it not been for Dejan's own stupidity. Seemingly the smallest bit of friction gets all of Dejan's nerves going, oversensitive and chasing the climax like a drowning man chases air.

Šime breaks out in a grin, "I, uh-- I never took you for a pillow princess, _srce_."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, yet." Dejan bites down on his lip to stop himself from smiling, "You're welcome to find out all of them."

An uneasy breeze welcomes itself in the room, causing shivers to go down Dejan's spine. He shuts his eyes before taking his and Šime's heads in hand and stroking, needing his mind to finally _shut the fuck up._

"Did you feel that, too?"

Quietly, so quietly that Dejan could have almost missed it if he focused hard enough, it escapes Šime's lips. Maybe it's the atmosphere in the air but Dejan is positive he's going insane.

"Stop thinking." he hears himself say, though he isn't sure who exactly he adresses.

The moment he meets Šime's lips with his own, something does, indeed, change in the air around them. The world seemingly ceases to exist, putting them in a space of their own -- far smaller and far too intimate for Dejan's liking. All the cogs in his brain seem to instantly start working faster, all the tears threaten to escape the cage that is his body. The only certainity in this claustrophobic space is that he is Dejan and Šime, Šime. He feels Šime's heart beating underneath him so generously it might as well have been his own heartbeat.

Dejan feels as though a circle had been put around his throat, and he doesn't know how to escape it. When Šime kisses him, he knows it's supposed to be loving, but this world encourages him to think otherwise. Šime's tounge rubbing against his own is seemingly happening from behind a wall of mist. Dejan is confused but, most of all, he is scared, so scared of this universe that he feels will eat him alive no matter what he does--

Then, the softest touch on the small of his back. Fingers, so much more frail than his own, pressing into his skin, anchoring him to reality. Nails scraping down, down, _down_ , until a strangled cry escapes his lips. He realizes he had stopped in his movements when the hands press into his back again, encouraging him to please resume his ministrations. With their force, he feels himself reconnecting with Šime _(is this Šime, his Šime, or is this merely a shadow of what used to be?)_ , all the nerves in his body consumed by pure animalistic pleasure.

Šime's hands caress up his back, pressing into the tightly knotted muscles that carry the whole world and more. They are gentle, so loving you wouldn't think they have found themselves in this situation at all. An old married couple discovering their bodies all over again, maybe, not a pair of adrenaline hazed young men desperate to feel something and to be felt. Šime massages at the nape of his neck, where his hair starts growing.

"Šime, _ljubavi_ , I can't..."

Šime pulls him into another kiss then, far gentler and unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It is as though a message had been portrayed through this silent exchange, plounging confidence into Dejan's bones.

"Yes, you can, _ljepoto_." Šime whispers against his lips, "You've done so well. You deserve to be rewarded."

Dejan's hand picks up the pace on his and Šime's cocks, a strangled whimper filling the space between their lips. He looks into Šime's eyes then, properly. They gaze at him with so much adoration Dejan never thought humanly possible. His other hand finds Šime's face to cup it, Ieading into another soft kiss. Šime keeps on playing with his scalp, drawing invisible patterns that only make him edge closer, _closer--_

As Šime scratches down his scalp, he feels himself able to breathe normally again. The circle is eagerly loosening, allowing his mind to finally collect itself. It is as though the cure to all of his troubles was Šime, all along.

In the corner of his eye, Dejan catches the stars illuminating the great firmament. He imagines he can see the same sparkles glistening in Šime's eyes.

He pulls the Croatian flag out from inbetween their bodies, throwing it carelessly around his back instead. Šime's face is kissed by a blush so beautiful Dejan wishes for this image to stay in his memory until the end of all days. He takes one of Šime's weak hands in his.

"Come for me, Šime." Dejan murmurs in his ear, scraping the earlobe with his teeth, "I've got you."

Šime throws his head back, arms going limp against his side when Dejan strokes them together without the cover of the sheer material. The feeling is all too raw, unexpected in the best of ways, that Šime almost wishes for it to last a little longer. Not when Dejan is so perfect above him, not when he tugs just the right amount of painfully, not when he kisses down his neck--

The hotel room eats the low, guttural moan that comes out of Šime's mouth as his thighs begin to tremble from the pleasure he had sought for so long. Moscow might have witnessed tears of joy and of sorrow, but no such pleasure. Šime reaches with his shaking hand to accompany Dejan's much warmer hand, riding his high off whilist helping his _dragi_ find his own. Gently tugging Dejan's fingers away from his cock, he leads them elsewhere.

"I opened myself up for you earlier." Šime breathes, massaging his entrance with the tips of Dejan's fingers, "Dejo, please. I need this. I need you."

Dejan massages the back of Šime's thighs. He feels his the muscles in his legs getting gradually weaker, trembling from the proximity of the climax that is so close yet a world away. He hooks Šime's legs around his waist and pulls him closer. Šime gasps, overcoming the last of his orgasm and hardening slowly. Dejan positions himself against Šime's entrance, applying the slightest bit of friction without pushing in. Šime's back curls in a long shudder that flows through his whole body.

"You're the runner up in the World Cup, _dragi_." Šime whispers, though it rings in Dejan's head like a scream, "Now, earn your prize."

His mouth opens in a filthy _o_  as Dejan finally enters him, agonisingly slowly at first. The soles of Šime's feet press into Dejan's lower back as he decides on a tempo. He doesn't bother telling him where to put his hands. Šime knows better than to touch when not asked. Gradual waves of pleasure pulse through Šime's body as Dejan thrusts into him. He doesn't move a muscle, instead allowing Dejan to do as he pleases. It brings him an unusual sense of comfort, the fact that he, of all people, can bring Dejan so much pleasure with merely existing in this moment.

Dejan sets a punishing pace, wishing to escape every bit of fatigue gained during the last few weeks with each prolonged thrust. It stimulates Šime's body to madness, all of his nerves unsure of how to cope with this much at once. Dejan's lips reach the hollow inbetween his collarbones, kissing there and further up before scraping his teeth at the root of his throat. He presses his legs against Dejan's waist more strongly, practically begging for him to go even faster. Both of Dejan's hands roam in the curls of Šime's hair lovingly as though to distract him from the harsh pounding he is on the receiving end of.

As if Šime ever needed a distraction to begin with.

He grins instead, lopsided and tired, overstimulated beyond anything he had ever felt. He shifts his hips upwards to allow Dejan deeper access. It takes him an unbelievable amount of effort to keep them up, his muscles trembling with a strained ache.

"Please, Dejo. Come for me."

The gasp that escapes Dejan's lips is muffled once he bites down on the soft skin underneath Šime's collarbone. He halts in one final thrust, eyes closing shut and breathing rapidly into Šime's ear. It is the single most erotic thing Šime had ever seen.

Dejan reluctantly pulls out and presses Šime's hips back into the soft mattress. His blunt fingernails create hollow marks that will slowly fade. He sits up and looks at Šime, at the sweaty masterpiece he had painted.

"You're so beautiful."

A faint crimson shade paints Šime's cheeks as he smiles. His hips are pulsating under where Dejan holds them down, maniacally seeking friction that just isn't there.

"You've been so good for me tonight, _ljubavi_. So good."

Dejan smiles sheepishly before sinking down and capturing the tip of Šime's cock in a long awaited kiss. It is pure erotica, really, the filthy sounds it erects from Šime. He starts fidgeting even more on the large bed but Dejan does not go down any further. He worships the head of Šime's cock like a peasant worships their God. With his tounge, he washes away the waves of pleasure from the past, eagerly awaiting the new ones. When he pulls away, a single streak of spit connects him to the beautiful gift he had been blessed with. He licks his lips generously before kissing it like a maniac or a man in love, possibly both. Waves of Šime's come begin to gradually fill his mouth and he accepts eagerly the treat he had waited for thus far. He rubs his lower lip alongside the length of Šime's cock once he is finished, silently thanking him for allowing him to do this.

As Šime's careless laughter fills the room, all cares in the world are forgotten. The sky seems to shine with a more gentle hue, the wind isn't so harsh anymore like it used to be. Dejan curls into Šime's arms and enjoys the merry sound of his laughter like it had been the only thing he craved from the very beginning.

They are, after all, World Cup finalists and they deserve to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Every single kudos and comment is much encouraged! <3
> 
> I am not a native Croatian speaker (nor, English) so if any of the following terms are used incorrectly, please let me know!
> 
> dragi - my darling  
> ljubavi - my love  
> ljepoto - my beautiful  
> srce - my heart


End file.
